Rebellion
by Jakeroo
Summary: England is in the midst of a civil war when two soldiers, a rebel medic and a government commander, join together to end it.


John crouched against the wall, checking the magazines in his gun. "Shit," he muttered, leaning against the plaster of the decrepit building. He was almost out.

He grabbed for the radio at his belt. "Hello? Anyone hear me?" he said quietly, glancing around for enemies. "Can anyone hear me? Corporal John Watson here. Trapped in an old café." He peered out the window at the bullet-hole splattered banner hanging by a thread from the storefront. "Speedy's Café. Baker Street. Does anybody read?" Silence. "Shit," he said again, tossing the radio away.

Footsteps.

John gripped his rifle and ducked behind the counter, silently praying. Shouts, footsteps—soldiers, lots of them. If they were the rebellion, they were reinforcements.

If they were the government… well…

"Please, God, let me live," John muttered.

"Halt!" a voice shouted—deep, rumbling, a voice like melted chocolate. The footsteps stopped as the voice continued, "Private, fetch me that piece of rubber. In the café."

John gasped and froze, holding his breath in, not moving an inch. A clatter of hurried marching. The scratching of somebody moving glass. More footsteps. "Here, Commander Holmes," a young, scared voice said. John mentally cursed. Another would-be innocent young kid thrown into this bloody civil war.

A moment of silence. Then: "Whoever's in the café, come out with your hands up."

John tightened his grip on his gun. Surely this Holmes couldn't know he was in the building.

A nervous voice spoke. "There's nobody in the building, Commander. You… you can see that."

The chocolate voice came back, rippling with suppressed frustration. "Don't talk out loud, Private Anderson. See this piece of rubber? It was sitting in the broken tap, but there's no water on it. It's waterproof—the only kinds of waterproof boots are rain boots and military boots. Its tear pattern matches the glass on the door frame, which was only broken in the last couple days. Just look at the shatter pattern—oh, never mind, it's useless. You know, it'll save a hell of a lot of time if you obey my every order. There's somebody in the building. Go get him!"

Running. Footsteps getting nearer. "God fucking damn it," John muttered. Okay. There was only one way to do this.

He began counting in his head. Five. Four.

The footsteps were getting nearer.

Three. Two. One.

Go.

He rose, spinning, raising his gun to his face, peering through the scope. He had just enough time to glimpse the colour of the soldiers' uniforms: red. Government.

Enemies. Five of them.

They began to raise their weapons.

Shot to the stomach. The first soldier went down.

John spun around, knocking over a circular table and crouching behind it. Two hits to the chest. The second fell.

Two more left.

John ducked under the table, holding his breath and the plaster behind him shattered to a splatter of bullets. Footsteps, on both sides of him. They were approaching him on opposite sides.

John checked his gun. Two more bullets left.

They were almost on top of him.

John jumped up, shoving the table to the left, knocking it into one of the soldiers, and fell on to one knee, shooting the other man in the chest. As the first soldier began to scramble for his gun, John turned around. One bullet to the head.

John relaxed, gasping for breath, his heart hammering. After all this time, it never got easier. Killing people—fellow Englishmen, fellow _humans_. But this was the only way.

"Not bad."

John stopped in his tracks, facing away from the door, head down. He closed his eyes. Who had he missed?

Chocolate-Voice. Commander Homes, or Holmes, or whatever.

"Unfortunately—for you—you missed one. That's me. And I know you don't have any ammunition left in your gun, so you might as well drop it."

John opened his eyes and raised his eyebrows. This guy was good.

"Turn around," Chocolate-Voice ordered, powerful, forceful. John obeyed.

And lost his breath.

The man standing before him… words flashed in John's mind: beautiful, handsome, _hella tall_. English wasn't adequate to describe his curly brown locks, his shining summer-blue eyes that seemed to swiftly swirl and change colours. The man wasn't wearing a military uniform, he wasn't even holding a gun. And he was smiling.

"What's your name, Corporal?" the man asked, jamming his hands in the pocket of his long pocketed cape coat, flashing his whites in a Cheshire grin.

John eyed him. "Why?"

"Because I like to collect information," he said, stepping over the broken glass of the empty doorframe. "For instance, I know you trained in the Middle East before the rebellion began. I know you joined when the government executed your parents. I know you're only supposed to be an army doctor. And I know you have no more bullets left in your rifle."

John raised an eyebrow. "Are you going to kill me?" he asked quietly.

Holmes looked him up and down. "I also know you're tired of the war," he whispered. "And I am too. I know I can end it, but I need a partner." He stopped a couple of inches from John and leaned forward. "Want to join me?"

John held in his breath as the man's scent washed over him. Dark, musky, powerful. "How do I know I can trust you?"

"You don't."

"What's your name?"

The man smiled. "Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."


End file.
